By Abby Quillen
My four-year-old son Ezra takes a bite of his toast. “What happens when we die?” he asks after he swallows.
I stare at my coffee. “I don’t know.”
“Grandpa knows,” Ezra says.
I nod. We’ve had this conversation quite a few times in the six months since my dad died. It’s like a skipping record, the same question again and again.
“Do you want to hear a story about Grandpa?” I ask.